


let me swim in the silk of your bittersweet laugh

by LearaBribage



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Season 7-8 AU, but canon is rewritable atm and so i shit at it, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 01:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20734106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearaBribage/pseuds/LearaBribage
Summary: Sansa teaches Jon to dance. Jon learns to be brave. But why is everything still so bittersweet? An angsty, but stoically optimistic remix of season 7 and season 8.





	let me swim in the silk of your bittersweet laugh

Sansa was dreaming.

Here, the overture of spring sang sweetly. Crimson leaves of the Weirwood tree fell around her softly, all awhirl like a lover's kisses. Her lips curled, heart full of light and warmth.

Here, the river was a canvass as clear as the blue sky. The waves jostled with a hum, a wistful puddle forming at her fingertips. A brave thought drifted at her musings, and just this once, the air was filled with a forgotten hymn of longing.

She sang for the truth that took her father from her, his long, kind face unforgotten in her screams. She sang for the truth that killed her mother and brother Robb, their words of wisdom laced in her longing for Winterfell. She sang for the truth that left Rickon pale-eyed and bloodied amid the chorus of steel and arrow, his laughter getting fainter and fainter from her memory each day. She does not want to forget. She does not want to forget, but she does, she does, and even rumours of Bran and Arya being alive were not enough to still the nightmares from the silence of the night. And her? What has her sorrow and anger led her to become? She wondered aloud — every misery, did her family truly deserve it all?

Until it was too much, all of it, and her voice stilled, caged by the wretchedness of a memory.

The memory of Jon much, much earlier, haunting yet gentle against her arms. The memory of his melancholy after the battle, and her swimming against the silk of his bittersweet laugh. The memory of his promise, as her heart stole her breath. The shape of his mouth, saying, "Yours, the North is yours."

_Yours._

Her anger and her grief overtook her then, when in her mind, she was screaming desperately, _please stay, please let us be true, please shake the stars into birth._

All the desire and the ache within her unbidden, uncertain, undone.

She did not speak for a time, her unshed tears sinking and taking root somewhere else that hurt much, much worse. This truth startled her eyes open, gasping, and her back hurt, feeling the dampness of her dress from leaning against the heart tree. Her cheeks were quite warm, as the silk of her tears fell freely once again.

_No more, please_, she begged, her eyes fluttering close when she sensed footsteps pressing the soft earth nearby.

"Sansa," he greeted, his deep voice hesitant and pensive.

Wiping her cheeks furtively, she turned to him and patted the grass beside her. He sat, his form close but reverent. It was enough to tug at her heartstrings. 

"I wish you _wouldn't_." 

"Wouldn't leave? Sansa, you know I have t—"

Glaring at him, she shook her head and turned away from him, suddenly exhausted by his refrain. 

“Sansa, please, help me understand,” his voice heavily laced with fatigue as well.

Her shoulders drooped further. None of them liked hurting each other like this, but she also wished he did not keep things from her. Her lids fluttered close for a bit, a sigh escaping her lips. When she faced him again, his visage was marred in anguish. His eyes were downcast, and the curve of his mouth much apparent. The long curl of his dark lashes fluttered a bit when she placed her hand on his arm.

"I _trust _you," her voice firm, but gentle as he gazed at her. “But Southron rulers don't take kindly to us. You can dance as Prince Aemon all you please, but they will not share your rhythm."

The furrow of his brows as he was about to counter gave a sudden rise to her annoyance. "You know this to be true!"

Jon raised his head with a frustrated grunt. Soon, his dark irises were filled with light, not unlike an auburn sea when sunlight drifted between the leaves of the Weirwood tree. For a moment, she thought he had fallen asleep until his placid countenance grew into an inquisitive, curious mask when he fixed his attention to her.

"Sansa, could you," his cadence unsure, turning towards her, "...would you mind if you..."

She squinted at him, not fully understanding the thread of his thoughts, even when she had an inkling. Perhaps he was in need of more assurance. She inched closer then, gently resting her hands by the sides of his face just as he did to her moons ago when she was the one who did not know how to reach out to him.

"Please, Jon, let me help you," she asked, her fingers unconsciously caressing his cheeks.

His eyes softened at her, and her stomach twisted so suddenly that she cannot help the soft gasp that escaped her lips. It must have been her imagination, but his eyes grew darker at it. He called her name, and she abruptly focused her gaze on him again.

"You've told me what they did to you, but not what you did to survive them. Let me learn from you, so I can return."

_To me?_ She hoped that's what he wanted to say.

Her hands faltered for a bit until her resolve returned, and she eyed him with fierce determination before standing up and gesturing for him to do the same. "You know your song, Jon. We shall now find out what sort of dance it will be.” 

When his hand rested on the small of her back, the warmth spread all over her so quickly that she pretended that the breath she drew was from fatigue. Their fingers intertwined, Sansa straightened her form, calling to mind the lessons that aided her in King's Landing.

_It is not dishonourable to kneel when you kneel in defiance for the sake of your family. It is not subservient to weep when you speak their words in the name of duty. It is not a mummer's farce when you do all these for a higher cause… because all of it will have been for love and honour._

_Personal honour is not the same as political honour_, she thought, and she should have known better than to ignore this before, but she was too taken by the verses and fetes of the Southron courts then. Perhaps, most importantly, she did not know what she truly wanted to be then. Blinking, she gripped his hand more tightly and nodded to him when his brows furrowed with concern. She then let Jon move them together in the overtures of a waltz.

"When you knelt to Mance Rayder, you said that you wanted to fight for the side that fights for the living because the Night's Watch were in denial of the truth."

A small, fond smile settled on her lips when he assented it with a similar twitch on his mouth. Jon pressed his hand behind her softly before he spun them together, as his mien grew pensive when he surmised what she was telling him. It was interesting to see, the play of emotions upon his troubled countenance at every lace of story she spoke of. His mouth was set in a firm line, grip on her back tightening a bit.

“I was much the same.” He stepped back, and she moved towards him. “I may have been naive then, but that did not mean I was powerless and weak.”

Pausing abruptly, Sansa raised a brow at him in concern. He was looking down the ground like he was drowning and had forgotten how to swim, and she did not know how fast she would get to him before the jostle of the waves got to him. She curled her fingers on his shoulder, and she imagined that this was how it was probably like to fight to the end, not unlike little waves dying to get to the shore. 

“I want to fight for life," his grip on her suddenly tightening as he gazed at her directly, his voice ghost-soft and haunting, "a life after war."

The fingers resting on his shoulder trembled as her mouth parted in quiet surprise. Her heart thudded painfully against her chest.

"Jon," she cried, her eyes fluttering close as she laid her head gently on the furs of his coat, the one she made for him. Her arms found his waist the same time his did on hers. "That's all I'm hoping for."

He drew her closer to him, close enough for her to feel his soft lashes on her skin. Close enough for her to feel the rhythm of his heart beating just like hers. Close enough for her to feel his mouth by the edge of her neck when he whispered, "You make me hope for a life after war."

She tightened her hold on him more, basking in the safety of his arms.

And for a time, it had been enough.

Enough until the Northern lords worried that their King has forgotten his loyalty to the North. Enough until Winter came and brought life to monsters she had never thought capable of existing. Enough until the Dragon Queen came and made castles out of bodies in a wave of fire and blood.

Enough until she felt him drowning, drowning, drowning in a flood of sorrows he thought he could never rise from. Enough until he could not speak, simply held her close to him before going back to Castle Black.

This time, it was never enough.

Alone this time again by the Weirwood tree, Sansa picked up the trails of her skirt and walked as fast as she could to the Great Hall, her mind in a flurry of thoughts. By the time she has established who would be Winterfell’s castellan and gathered a few soldiers to come with her to Castle Black, her heart felt like it would burst.

One by one, the brothers of the Night’s Watch descended to their knees at her entrance, and she surmised that had she been here in her girlhood, her eyes would be brimming with unshed tears at the display. It was ever so lovely, not unlike the songs. The dark knights rising, come to aid and love the sweet and beautiful lady.

But her eyes only registered their presence briefly. Only his presence could catch her gaze, captivating her every breath as he stared back at her just the same. His grey eyes ushered her blue ones, calling her, as if to say what he couldn’t admit before. 

_Would you still let me return to you?_

Sansa knew he would not let these words fall, but she heard them all the same. Felt every wave of them, the weight of it heavy and lurking just above the water. All of it. Every dark and glorious thing they dare not utter. But unlike him, she would not be moved to remain blind.

_I would keep your heart and bare mine to yours, _she thought, nodding as he bowed before letting her enter his solar. They did not face each other until they were alone. He chose not to speak for a while, so Sansa studied the play of shadows on his solemn visage. 

“What brought you here?” he finally said, raising his eyes to her.

“Bran sent a missive,” she replied, curling her fists, not minding the wrinkles it made on her pale blue dress. “Drogon’s presence in the far South could mean that children from the forest would rise again. Or are probably lingering somewhere safe.”

Jon nodded, drinking from his cup. “It’s a sound conjecture. Tormund told me that farther from where they settled, there are still places they dare not visit for fear of inciting strange occurrences they cannot explain.”

“When Arya comes back, he wants us Starks to meet them,” she answered with a tight grin, eyes cast down, trembling a little. She still does not understand Bran’s reasons even though she sought understanding of the creatures to learn what powers they have, but she suspected that it may have something to do with reaching an accord with those of old blood. But she can never be truly certain, as Bran was too far away, too unrecognisable, too morose.

It truly irritated her to be so far apart from everyone else. It was much better when they were together, not apart. She could knit and weave as much as she liked, but none of it felt inspiring, at least it was not like the ones she was able to do in their absence. Her eyes drifted to him again, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

“But why not ink these thoughts unto a scroll?”

Breathing through her nose, she squared her shoulders and stared at him head on. “Peacetime does not mean war cannot foster with an unsatisfied people. You know this to be true. So like you, I have come to manifest my respect and gratitude for the Night’s Watch with my visit. I brought leather and food as well.”

“And most of all,” she said, rising, as she spared him a soft smile over her shoulder before facing the hearth. “How could I not visit these hallowed halls again? I owe Castle Black for taking me in when I sought refuge.”

With a hesitant smile, Jon raised his eyes to her. “Are the Northern lords bugging you again about marriage?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, making him smirk as he sat down beside her.

“I wish that was all. But that is the long and short of it.” Sansa put her cup down, meeting his eyes before looking down again. “Does seeking refuge from loneliness count?”

Jon’s face fell, his eyes suddenly unreadable to her. He laid down his cup beside him before he took off his gloves. She noticed the faint lines of scratches and bruises all over his hands. Her fingers tingled with warmth, and she had to breathe through her nose.

After a while he said, “The Night’s Watch can visit Winterfell come spring.”

“Could you not come home instead?” Her hands started shaking, her eyes brimming with tears even as she straightened her back and tried her best to school her mien into a neutral mask.

“I can’t.”

In spite of herself, she stood in anger, bitterness in her tone as he avoided her gaze. “Why not?”

He rose as well, his hands fisted even as he neared her, tone with barely restrained anguish. “Please, Sansa, you know why!”

Sansa scoffed, a snarl forming on her lips as they glared at each other. “There’s no reason at all! You think the Unsullied would kill you here? They barely lasted in winter! The Seven Kingdoms owe you their lives! You should not be killing yourself here! If you’re looking to atone, you don’t need to! You already have forgiveness, Jon! Or is this still about Daenerys?”

“No, Sansa, it’s not that!”

“Then what is it?” She did not want to lose him again, so she held his face. “What is it truly, if not her?”

His eyes widened when tears fell from her eyes. He shook his head, caressing her face as well. She realised he did not want to make her cry, but she could not help it! She could not help it, even as her chest was nearly up against his.

At last he spoke softly, amid the thunder of her heartbeats, “I looked at you, and I didn’t want to be forgiven.”

He took a deep breath, and Sansa almost forgot herself when his voice dipped at the mention of her name, of his _want_. “Seven gods, I don’t _want_ to, Sansa.”

She eyed him carefully, heart torn between hope and wretchedness. “What are you saying?”

His eyes searched hers, his brows furrowing as his mouth repeatedly tried to form the words but couldn’t. She clutched his face back, heart thudding painfully. She wants this to be over, she wants this to be free, she wants, she wants, and she wants, but would he ever admit his want for her?

“All my life I’ve fought, and didn’t want it. But she wanted to… kill you. And it was the only instance, the one instance I truly wanted to fight. The one instance I would never ask forgiveness for.” Then he took a deep breath, and she felt as wretched as he did when he finally uttered, “I would’ve given all my blood for the sweetness of your laughter, Sansa.”

“You underestimate my love for you, Jon,” she sparred, hardly having time to think before she realised she was kissing him. He grasped her just as desperately, their sighs and moans making her burn so sweetly because now she was certain that all his touch tells her, _I am yours, all yours, and I bare myself to you._

Sansa knew that he can feel her heart was bare to him just the same when hours later after their amorous embrace, she handed him Bran’s pardon with a smirk. Jon knew that if he had to lose, it would always be to her smile and her might. They shared many a laughter then. For they knew that though there were still wars to come and kingdoms to weather and rule, it would no longer be all morose ties and borrowed lies.

They were each other’s, and their love was bittersweet, but nonetheless committed and true.

**Author's Note:**

> Gahh, this is my first time writing for jonsa! It took a long while to finally finish this since I started this after season 8, and I gravely underestimated the disappointment I felt, so it took me longer to finish it. The prompts I received were from decembersiris ("all my blood for the sweetness of her laughter"), aslonelyastheyget ("Sansa teaching Jon how to dance"), and realsashafierce ("ny hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, canon compliant (except that u know… they end up hehhee) will make me so happy ahhh"). 
> 
> I twisted some things and the dance thing a bit, but I hope you like it! 
> 
> -
> 
> I highly recommend the song "Howling" by RY X. It just screams jonsa! 
> 
> -
> 
> The title comes from a poem I wrote titled "Sunrise" at my wordpress (learathebard).


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